So, I once kvetched (I’m of Italian descent, born and raised in the South…can I use Yiddish in my vocab?) about the completely inconsiderate goings ons at my apartment. The jist: someone hateful blares their carhorn every morning at 7:30 on the nose. And that early in the morning, ripped from my sleep, I generally hate life.
In the months since I’ve begun this loathe-hate relationship (there is no upside) with Mr. Mitsubishi, I’ve actually learned to adjust–even though I swore not to based solely on principal. I actually don’t mind waking up in the morning and typically precede the one horn tap-happy parade. If it’s a really good day, I’m already dressed when I hear the incessant blaring and almost affectionately acknowledge it as one of those quirky idiosyncrasies of my over priced, slightly sketchy apartment complex. Almost.
So I felt ultimately betrayed when a familiar one note barrage jerked me out of my slumber on a Wednesday. At 7:15. DID I MENTION I DON’T HAVE TO WORK TODAY. Everyone has their breaking point.
Snarling, I leaped out of bed and pressed my hands and face against my window. Willconfrontandkilltoday, the less civilized portion of my mind whispered. Peering out the window, though, I noticed Mr. Mitsubishi traded in for some old mystery white suburban. The momentary confusion dilutes my anger and I groggily recognize my bladder’s suggestion I detour. So instead of busting through a window, I slump into the bathroom, onto the can, put my head into my hands in utter, exhausted defeat and pee. Too much info? Blogging boundary crossed?
However, I have Irish and Italian blood coursing through my veins, so my red rage was re-incensed like that when I heard the devil horn rip through my morning fog once again. I yanked up my Soffe’s and decided, without a doubt, I would confront Mr. Mitsubishi whoEVER today. As I head for the door, I hear Mia pathetically whimper to be let out of her crate. YESSSSSS! I will take my ferocious 15 pound stranger-hating dog out with me. Protection AND intimidation! I brief her on her upcoming role as I swipe her under my arm. I set her next to the door to put on my fuzzy slippers… Noooo! I grab her and hold her at an arm’s length when I notice her peeing on the carpet. Which is not the deal we agreed upon. I fling open the door and proceed to rush out the door with a entirely new purpose when I suddenly find myself face to face with a large, kindly woman walking down the stairs. Without a doubt, because I’ve heard her heavily traipse down the stairs every Thursday, I know this woman is the other half of this carpool situation I so despise. Mia, never a fan of surprises, wriggles out of my hands and jumps to the floor, strains against her leash, and lets loose a string of doggy expletives that, were I able to translate it into English, would doubtlessly have to be entirely censored out. Neighbor apparently speaks Dog, too, because she has stopped in her tracks, eyes large.
Carpool Neighbor is effectively being attacked into a corner and has my complete and unmitigated attention. Mia is playing her part to perfection and knows all her lines by heart. She is unleashing every snarl and aggressive snipe I’ve pent up all these months. That’s my cue! What’s my line??
“Ohmygosh, I am soooooo sorry, m’am.” What are these words?! “She’s really harmless, I promise, I am so, so sorry. Please continue, she won’t do anything, she’s all talk.” Why are you blowing your street cred?! She’s leaving! Don’t back away from this confrontation you weakling, say something! Say something! “Okay, now, bye! Have a good morning! So sorry! Hope you have a great day!”
As I sop up pee from my carpet, Mia looks at me condescendingly. My distaste for confrontation has officially moved into the realm of Confrontation Issue. And we both know it.